This will be the first time since you decided to leave that I’ve felt any degree of lingering loneliness. And I really don’t know how that sits with me. I don’t know how it’s meant to sit.
The irony is that you haven’t left. As you continually put it, “I don’t know what I want”. Then you leave for 3 or 4 days, living whatever other life you have out there, and then you re-emerge. Blazing your way back through the front door to the home that is as you left it, the wife, me, that is as you left me, and our animals, that are as you left them.
I guess loneliness is normal. I guess that these intertwined and interchangeable senses of loneliness, bitterness, grief, anger and numbness are normal. I have to guess, because I have no other way to measure it.
A while ago, maybe a year or two, your mother told us in a decidedly casual manner, that she has BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder).
She kind of blurted it into the cavity of the moving vehicle we were in, while she drove us between some nondescript place and another nondescript place at the top of the other island, sandwiching that statement in between questions about what we wanted for dinner and stories from her work.
I remember being quite struck. Struck with her nonchalant attitude toward it (I knew nothing about BPD at the time), and struck with your complete lack of reaction. I interpreted that at the time to you processing, or listening, or letting her speak, but in reality, I’m pretty sure that declaration of hers didn’t even touch you.
I talked to her for some time, maybe 20 minutes or so, about what BPD meant for her, and how she thought it had impacted her life. She was bluntly candid, open, transparent and disturbingly unemotional in her responses. I never researched BPD beyond that single conversation – I didn’t really think I needed to.
Fast forward to now.
You’re six months into your wayward journey out of this marriage (or not, depending on perspective), and two weeks ago, your psychologist asked you to research the impact of BPD on children. She thought perhaps your mother’s BPD had impacted you significantly.
I’d had a thought a week earlier – what if you have BPD? I didn’t verbalise that, because what kind of asshole suggests their significant other might have a mental illness – much less actually giving it a name – and, I’m not qualified to suggest a diagnosis of anything for anyone. But, strike me down, when I looked around for information and resources and read experiences from other people in relationships with those with BPD, I found more than one similarity.
I carried on, existing in this state of limbo, holding my suspicions about BPD to myself.
Two days ago, you researched BPD in relation to your behaviour. You did this all of your own accord and without any prompting from your psychologist, me or anyone else close to you. And, somewhat unexpectedly, you arrived at the conclusion that you probably have BPD.
You asked my opinion, and I repeated earlier statements: I am not your psychologist. I am not qualified to diagnose you. I do not think you should be self-diagnosing. I do not think you can self-diagnose from a Wikipedia article. If there is something going on with you that you cannot control, I will continue to support you. I will hold your hand while you receive help, if that’s what you choose.
You brushed it off, cried a little, told me you feel crazy. I told you to cancel all plans to drink this weekend and call your psychologist. You said no.
I have had my doubts. I absolutely have wondered if you have BPD.
I have spent a lot of time in the past month looking through resources, comparing notes, comparing experiences, guessing.
I guess a lot. You are forcing me to guess a lot. This situation is forcing me to guess, a lot.
I guess is now my reality. Not, I know, or, I am sure, or, “undoubtedly”. Just, I guess.
Apathy is running rife in your orbit at the moment and I guess I am numb. I guess I am lonely.
I guess, this is the end.